


Despite Black Marks

by clefairytea



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Actual Phantom Thieves, Anti-Hero Phantom Thieves, Gen, More like.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 13:19:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clefairytea/pseuds/clefairytea
Summary: ‘Kid, that’s not the work you’ve been given. We write for the entertainment section. What part of “serial murderer” is entertainment?’‘Robin Hood has a fanbase!’ he protested, ‘That’s gotta count, right? C’mon, Ohya-senpai, just take a look at it. If it’s got your stamp of approval the editors might actually run it.’‘That is not how this business works, Mishima,’ Ohya snapped, setting her glass down, ‘Stop screwing around with this irrelevant crap and write the pieces assigned to you.’--In which the Phantom Thieves are more like actual Phantom Thieves, and trashy journalist Yuuki Mishima is pulled along for the ride.





	Despite Black Marks

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for discussion of sexual assault, rape, child abuse. No more graphic than it is in the game!
> 
> Written for an anon on Tumblr, and it kind of got away from me a bit. Enjoy!

Mishima was soaked to the bone by the time he reached Crossroads, his laptop bag bundled under his coat to protect it from the rain.

‘Oh, you poor thing,’ Lala said. Even the dishes boy looked up, pushing the curly hair out of his face and peering at Mishima through his thick glasses.

‘Ha! You look like a drowned rat, Yuuki-chan,’ Ohya said, swilling a near-empty glass in her hand and grinning at him. Mishima sighed. Ohya didn’t feel very much like his senior. It was more like having an annoying older sister. One that made you buy her drinks.

‘Urgh, my laptop bag is soaked…’ he said, sitting down on the barstool and pulling his laptop out to check on it.

‘Hopefully that horrible laptop of yours will have died at last,’ Ohya quipped, looking very cheery, ‘Then you can upgrade. Maybe start writing your articles on a type-writer!’

‘It’s not _that_ old. And I can’t afford a better laptop, Ohya-senpai,’ he replied, relief flooding him as his laptop – dear old Kanamin – came back online with an electronic hum.

‘Write some big-hitting articles and get that bread, Yuuki-chan,’ she said. Mishima just scowled – he’d been trying. It was hard, though, when all his briefs were for blatant clickbait. Top ten ways _Precure Wishing Star_ blew us away this season. Ten things every bad boss does. Are you a Risette expert – take this quiz and find out!

It was not what he wanted to be writing. Ohya, having long accepted she would spend her days writing crap until she died, didn’t understand what it was like for him. He actually had _ambition_. He became a journalist to write serious, hard-hitting work that changed the world. Not to spend his time speculating on idols’ love lives.

He dared not say so – Ohya would kick his ass for whining. She ordered another round ‘on Yuuki-chan’s tab’.

‘You got anything good for me today?’ Ohya asked, slurping her gin and tonic.

‘Well, I’ve got a great bit about the Robin Hood case.’

Ohya groaned.

‘Kid, that’s _not_ the work you’ve been given. We write for the entertainment section. What part of “serial murderer” is entertainment?’

‘He’s got a _fanbase_!’ he protested, ‘That’s gotta count, right? C’mon, Ohya-senpai, just take a look at it. If it’s got your stamp of approval the editors might actually run it.’

Ohya set down her glass with a scowl.

‘That is _not_ how this business works, Mishima,’ she snapped, ‘Stop screwing around with this irrelevant crap and write the pieces assigned to you.’

‘You know, he reminds me a lot of someone…’ Lala said, her back still to the two of them. Ohya glanced up, lip curled.

‘Yeah, and I learned to stop being such a little idiot about it. Yuuki-chan, trust me. Just swallow your pride, write the crap they want, and stop trying to have such big ideas,’ she said, ‘Don’t waste years fighting it like I did.’

Mishima had nothing to say to that. He took a drink, feeling grim and low now. The Robin Hood piece he was working on was his best, he knew that for a fact. It was incisive, interesting, and far more detailed than any of the other Robin Hood articles popping up.

Maybe he should just post it on a private blog anyway. But then, if he wrote it on company time, it belonged to his bosses, not to him.

He sighed, casting his gaze up to the TV screen in the corner. The rain was coming down harder than ever outside. He didn’t want to head home until it died down, so he supposed he was hanging out in here.

Suddenly, an image appeared on the news that sent Mishima’s heart to his throat.

‘Lala! Turn it up,’ he said frantically.

‘Huh? What’s that honey?’

‘The TV! That guy – I know that guy!’ he babbled. Concerned, Lala unmuted the TV.

_‘Former Olympic athlete and teacher Suguru Kamoshida was found dead in his home this morning –‘_

Kamoshida was dead?

‘ _\- with a bullet directly through his heart. There was no sign of a break-in, or a struggle. The only item found missing from Kamoshida-san’s home was his Olympic gold medal, which friends and family attest he always kept on display.’_

The bastard was finally gone?

_‘For almost fifteen years, Kamoshida-san taught at Shujin Academy –‘_

‘Shujin? Isn’t that your old school, Yuuki-kun?’ Lala asked, watching his reaction carefully. Mishima just sat with his mouth open. Ohya sat up, attention suddenly on the news report.

‘ _\- and was beloved by his many students –‘_

‘Beloved?’ Mishima repeated, barely believing his ears, ‘That bastard?’

‘ _\- and will surely be greatly missed by former and current students alike.’_

‘Yuuki-chan, are you okay?’ Ohya asked, frowning.

Mishima finished his drink.

‘Ohya-senpai, I think I need to go make some calls.’

#

It wasn’t that Shiho Suzui was Mishima’s _friend_ exactly. It was more like they had fought in the same war together, and had been lucky enough to come out the other end in (mostly) one piece. It had been a war everyone else had deliberately looked away from, and now it was suddenly over, almost ten years on, Mishima didn’t know quite what to do.

‘He’s dead,’ was the first thing Suzui said on answering the phone. Mishima’s throat felt very dry suddenly, and all he could do was croak out the word ‘Yeah’.

On the other end, Suzui began to laugh, or maybe sob, or maybe both.

‘Mishima-san, if you ever find out who Robin Hood is, let me know?’ she said, and he could hear the smile on her lips, ‘I’d like to be able to thank him.’

‘The thing is, I’m not entirely sure he did it,’ Mishima said.

‘Well,' Suzui said, sounding as though she were smiling, 'Let’s hope they’ll keep up the good work either way.’

#

The next day, two notebooks arrived at Tokyo police. The originals arrived, perfectly preserved in plastic bags, on the chief commissioner’s desk seemingly overnight, discovered by his startled PA when she came to bring in his coffee. There was no sign of forced entry, no fingerprints aside from Kamoshida’s on the covers. Handwriting analysis proved the handwriting was Kamoshida’s, beyond a doubt.

The notebooks, later called the Queen and Slave book by the press, contained full details of almost fifteen years of abuse, of different students in Kamoshida’s entire career at Shujin. All written meticulously by the bastard himself, and with such glee that the authorities could only describe the contents as ‘repulsive’.

‘Repulsive’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

Mishima knew, because copies of the books appeared in his laptop bag overnight as well.

Between the pages, found as he leafed through, pale and shaking, to find his own name, Mishima found a small black postcard. It was blank on one side. Flipping it over, he found symbol that looked like a bright red heart.

Own heart hammering, Mishima opened his laptop, and frantically began to write.

#

‘They said they wouldn’t print it,’ Mishima said. Suzui, practically swallowing a crepe whole beside him, only shrugged.

‘Of course they wouldn’t. You got a mysterious card from a mysterious figure, and you think they’re the real killer?’ she said through a mouthful of strawberries, ‘It doesn’t sound very believable Mishima-san.’

‘It’s so unfair! I didn’t make it up!’ he whined, and then wiped away a fleck of cream as Suzui laughed, ‘Urgh, come on, it’s winter. Why do you want to eat a crepe _now_?’

‘It’s always a good time for crepes,’ she said, and then glanced down, ‘Those books…were we…’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘What did –‘

‘You don’t want to know,’ he interrupted. He had looked at his own, and he wished he hadn’t. Suzui didn’t need to suffer that as well.

Suzui considered this for a second, and then shook her head.

‘You’re right. I don’t,’ she said, ‘By the way…did you know Ann is back in Tokyo?’

‘Huh? Takamaki-san?’ Mishima said, startled. Suzui smiled, and it was the kind of smile that filled her whole face. Maybe it was just the usually dour tone of their conversations, but Mishima felt like he’d barely ever seen Suzui smile like that.

‘Yeah! She called me up, saying she was back in Japan and wanted to meet up,’ she said, grinning, ‘Apparently she’s doing great! She isn’t modelling any more, instead she’d a stuntwoman.’

‘A stuntwoman? Takamaki-san?’ Mishima repeated, amused. Suzui laughed.

‘Yeah, who would have guessed, huh?’ she said.

#

The opening of the Ichiryusai Madarame Gallery was one of the most anticipated events of the art world this year. Many in the art world said it was about time that Madarame, one of the most influential and versatile artists of the century, had an entire gallery dedicated to his work and life. Madarame, ever humble, had been resisting it for some time. It wasn’t until he finally negotiated that profits from the gallery would go directly into the charitable funds he used to fund the careers and education of promising young artists, that he agreed to have his work put up as a permanent exhibition.

On the morning the gallery first opened to the public, the media fervour around it had hit such a level that dedicated fans were already camped out in queues around the massive golden building.

Yet when the young man arrived to open the doors to the public, he quickly re-emerged, pale in the face, panting, and at a loss.

Inside, every single painting had been stolen directly from their frames. In their place, were single photos, printed on polaroids, with names written beneath them, as well as a story.

There had been an entire room dedicated to Madarame’s widely agreed magnum opus – the Sayuri. That too, had been snatched from its frame. In its place was a single photo of a woman who looked very similar, smiling, with a baby in her arms.

Underneath, was written:

Katsushika Kitagawa  
1978 – 2003  
Killed by the greed and negligence of her own teacher.  
The true artist of the Sayuri

Madarame’s body – with a bullet through the heart – was recovered later that same day, alongside a postcard with a symbol that would soon be on every news channel in Japan.

It was only after Mishima left Crossroads and was waiting at the station, did he notice the extra weight in his own bag. Inside was a battered sketchbook, nondescript and mostly unremarkable.

Apart from, of course, the sketches of the Sayuri, and a name embossed on the back cover.

# 

_‘It is my firm belief that Robin Hood, and Robin Hood alone, is responsible for these crimes. We have investigated the case, and it is difficult to believe that anyone else is involved.’_

_‘But Akechi-kun, how could one man have pulled off the Madarame heist?’_

_‘I think we need to stop thinking about it as a_ heist _. Madarame is a noted conman. The paintings were probably loaned to Robin Hood, probably to generate controversy and public attention to his gallery, on the assumption they would be returned in a few days. Madarame simply placed his trust in the wrong man.’_

_‘Ha, insightful as ever, Akechi-kun! Now, here’s the million yen questions: why do you think cat hair was found in the gallery on the day of the heist?’_

#

Not long after the Madarame heist, citizens of Shibuya woke to windows plastered with the logo of the red and black heart.

The next day, the mayor of Shibuya, Junya Kaneshiro, was found dead in his office chair with a bullet in his chest, surrounded by hundreds of fake 10,000 yen bills. A briefcase left on his desk was later opened, revealing extensive documents proving his long connections to local mafia, trafficking groups, and proof of his personal involvement in the financial and sexual exploitation of minors.

Not only that, but every single real bill in Kaneshiro’s possession was suddenly nowhere to be found.

In Crossroads, watching the whole story on the news, Yuuki Mishima had yet to notice the sudden small but substantial addition to his own wallet. Enough to fund the purchase of, for instance, a new and more powerful laptop.

#

‘You sound like a nutjob,’ Ohya told him grimly.

‘But –‘

‘I’m not saying I don’t believe you,’ she said, waving his manuscript in front of his face, ‘I’m saying absolutely nobody else will.’

At Mishima’s stricken expression, she handed the manuscript back and smiled at him.

‘Don’t take it personally!’

‘H-how am I meant to not take that personally!?’ he spluttered, looking down at the manuscript in his hands. He knew it sounded crazy – the public in general had widely accepted Goro Akechi’s statements that these deaths were Robin Hood’s work. Mishima just didn’t understand how nobody else could see the differences. The victims – if they even deserved to be called that – were completely different from the people targeted by Robin Hood. Robin Hood also didn’t kill people so closely together – often it was years between cases. And Robin Hood killed with a shot to the head, not the heart.

It was completely different.

‘What am I meant to do with this, then?’ he whined. Ohya rolled her eyes.

‘Put it in a drawer and write me a listicle about kpop stars’ allergies?’ she suggested.

‘Can’t you just put it online?’ said a low voice. The two looked up, surprised to hear the dishwasher speak. He was looking over his shoulder at Mishima, glasses falling down his nose. Mishima swallowed, looking back down at his hands.

‘I can’t. I can’t publish outside of the company websites,’ Mishima said miserably. The dishwasher shrugged, returning to his work.

Mishima sat for a second, gripping his manuscript close to his chest, a thought occurring to him.

He couldn’t public outside of the company websites.

At least, not as Yuuki Mishima.

#

It had been a long time since he’d done any programming or web-design, but in spite of that, he was pretty pleased with how the site came out.

He was less pleased with how little traffic he got. And the comments were mostly Akechi fans telling him to fall down a hole and die, among more colourful suggestions.

In all honest, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He didn’t even have a name for this person, or people. He just called them not-Robin Hood, and that didn’t impress anyone.

Huffing, Mishima closed down his new laptop and went to bed. It was a lot of hours work, hours he won’t be paid for, and the reward had been so limited. Maybe Ohya was right – he was a conspiracy nut, and nobody cared about this aside from him.

The next morning on the tube to the office, Mishima’s phone buzzed. A news notification.

_Next target of the ‘Phantom Thieves’ listed on their website._

Only barely stopping himself from crying out, he checked the site. There it was – _Hisayoshi Sugimura_. CEO of Sugimura Enterprises.

The traffic was insane. As the train came to a stop, Mishima bolted off, heedless of the face it was far too early. Sitting down on the platform, he dragged his new laptop out of his bag and frantically began checking his site.

He couldn’t help but notice his security suddenly seemed to be _much_ better, and his code had been improved considerably overnight. In a cold sweat, he pulled up the source code and began frantically searching through it for signs of tampering.

Right at the bottom, he found a commented line that he was very, very certain had not been in the site already:

_ur welcome npc – oracle_

_#_

Sugimura had stepped into the role of Okumura Foods CEO after the sudden death of Kunikazu Okumura. He had been long-engaged to the Okumura heiress, but the death of her father had sped up the marriage process, and suddenly Sugimura was one of the youngest CEOs in the country. Sugimura was young, handsome, and led the company ‘admirably’, following the lead of the previous CEO who he considered a mentor, almost a father.

The wedding had been in every tabloid, every magazine. The young bride, beautiful in an expensive dress, was quoted as saying the wedding was in her father’s honour. Sugimura echoed the sentiment, and gave a speech that guests reported was captivating and tear-jerking in the man’s honour. He announced he would be opening a chain of cafes in his former mentor’s honour.

Kunikazu Cafés, all modelled after the original Okumura Café and offering lunch and coffee at a reasonable price with ultra-fast service, began popping up all around the country. So fast that nobody could doubt that, despite his age, Sugimura was a formidable force in the business world. Prime Minister Shido personally commented that Kunikazu Café was his favourite place for coffee in Japan.

Previous reservations about Okumura Foods working conditions were quite quickly swept away by this media fanfare. Okumura Foods was quietly merged into the broader Sugimura Enterprises umbrella, and the Okumura name faded out of everyone’s memories.

As for the rightful Okumura heiress, she appeared alongside Sugimura at dinners and charity events. Always beautiful, composed, and very very quiet.

#

‘ _Akechi-kun, what do you think about the Phantom Thieves’ recent threat to Hisayoshi Sugimura? Do we need to take this seriously?’_

_‘Haha, well I think we certainly shouldn’t disregard it entirely, but I don’t think it wise to take everything you read online so seriously. We haven’t been able to trace who made this website, but we suspect it’s a prank.’_

_‘So Sugimura-san can rest easy tonight?’_

_‘I’m sure with his money he rests well every night!’_

‘Man, what a load of crap,’ Ohya commented, as the TV audience laughed at Akechi’s joke, ‘They’re acting like it’s no big deal but Sugimura’s walking around with more bodyguards than ever.’

‘I cannot stand that man,’ Lala muttered.

‘He must be a bastard,’ Ohya said, looking astonished, ‘You never have a bad word to say about anyone.’

‘He is odious,’ Lala said, and then twisted around at the sound of bottles jingling and the door opening – her assistant had just returned from downstairs, ‘Akira-kun, what do you think?’

‘Huh?’ the boy said, looking blankly. Mishima was surprised a guy as scrawny as him could carry crates of bottles like that so easily. Maybe they were lighter than they looked.

‘About Sugimura?’

‘Oh. Nothing much,’ he replied mildly. Mishima scoffed quietly to himself. He was writing a _scathing_ blog post about Sugimura right now, and there was no small amount of horrible things to say about him. Honestly. Some people just had no opinions of their own.

Yet when he glanced up again, for a second he swore he saw the guy smirk.

#

Mishima woke on Saturday morning to find brown envelope sitting on his window ledge. It was very small – barely more than an envelope, but he was also very certain that his window had been shut when he went to sleep last night, and there wasn’t a sign anything had been broken.

Moreover, he lived on the fifteenth floor.

The only thing written on the envelope was _For your consideration,_ in sweeping cursive Sharpie.

Trembling, briefly certain this would be anthrax or a bomb or something like that, he peeled open the envelope. A bundle of papers fell out. They looked like photocopies of official documents. Mishima could see the lines where paperclips or staples had been copied, and some of them were tilted at odd angles, as though they had been copied in a rush.

As he scooped them up, he caught a glimpse of the word ‘ _Missing person report’¸_ and then a photo of Sugimura’s wife.

Breathing heavily, Mishima spread the papers out on his tiny desk, and then his floor.

Point one: Haru Sugimura had not been seen since the Sugimura Enterprises Halloween party. She had went with her husband, both in costume, but disappeared partway through the night.

Point two: Haru Sugimura had tried to bring charges up against her own husband last year, for unclear reasons. They had been dropped. Mishima had to read the report several times to even tell that was what it was said.

Point three: Sugimura had been picked up for frequenting a brothel in Shibuya. The charges had been dropped, very quickly. The report was barely half a page long.

Point four: The brothel was one revealed to be explicitly owned by Kaneshiro.

Mishima went to make himself some coffee. A day off would have to wait.

#

‘You know Haru Sugimura hasn’t been seen in _weeks_?’

‘Oh come on. She’s probably just pregnant, or had a bad face lift or something. You know what these CEO’s wives are like.’

‘No, no, I read it on the PhanSite. She’s been missing since October! They dug up all these police notes.’

‘That website, really?’

‘I’m serious! Some of the stuff on there, it makes it looks like Sugimura’s kind of a slime ball…’

‘Aw, I always liked him.’

‘You don’t think he killed his wife, did he?’

Mishima smiled to himself. He wondered what the girls next to him would think if they knew he was the one who was writing the articles they were so taken with.

Everyone in Tokyo was talking about it. Sugimura was appearing on television more and more, assuring everyone that Haru was fine, she was just at home resting, she just didn’t like the public eye very much, they both found this very funny, their marriage was as blissful as ever.

Mishima couldn’t help but notice that Sugimura looked considerably more deranged every time he showed up on screen. Whether he liked it or not, Mishima’s work was getting to him. Well, the Phantom Thieves really. But his job was just as valuable! If not even moreso, really.

He arrived at work with a spring in his step. Yet Ohya was waiting for him at his desk with a strained, pale look on her face.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, a pit opening up in the pit of his stomach.

‘The boss wants to see you,’ she said, sounding a little shaky.

#

For once, Mishima didn’t head to Crossroads after work. In fact, he left the building, still shaking heading to toe, and heading straight home. The underground was practically empty, everyone else still at work, all the kids him school. Just NEETS riding the tubes. College kids skipping class.

And men who had just been fired.

His hands shook as he tried to dig his keys out of his pockets. Fired. No money. No job. Effective immediately. Sloppy performance and missed deadlines and last chances, all gone. He’d have to move in with his parents (horrible – they ignored his pleas regarding Kamoshida, and it’s not something he’s ever sure he’ll be able to forgive). Did he have savings enough to stay? How long for?

He dropped his keys, cursed, and scooped them up. Only then did he notice that weird guy from the bar – Frizzy Hair Dude – standing behind him, a black and white cat bundled into his arms.

‘You’re home early,’ whatever-his-name-is said. He always mumbled, like he barely cared enough to speak.

‘You live here?’ Mishima blurted out. What the hell. How had he never ended up on the train home with this guy before? The guy’s lip twitches.

‘Yeah. Thirteenth floor,’ he said, adjusting his glasses. For some reason, Mishima gets the feeling he’s only just smothering a laugh, but he has no idea what for. Unless him being home early and unable to get into his building is so fucking funny.

‘Did you forgot something at home?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Mishima snapped, because he felt as though needed to tell _someone_ , ‘I got fired.’

‘Huh. That's not good,' he said mildly, playing with a strand of his hair. Instead of honouring that with a reply, Mishima unlocked the door and headed upstairs to sulk.

#

Hisayoshi Sugimura’s body was not so much found as _displayed._

Sugimura had been due to give another press conference, discussing his hopes for the upcoming election. He was a huge advocate of Shido taking a second term, as many were, in spite of some of the less than liberal policies he had put into place. In spite of his connections with the now-disgraced Junya Kaneshiro.

The press conference was, officially, about Sugimura Enterprise’s recent work in the oil industry. Yet it was intended to be more than that – fixing the company’s faltering image, assuring everyone again that there was no basis to the rumours about Haru.

The cameras began to roll, showing Sugimura smiling and looking directly into the camera. Security was on highest possible alert.

And then, suddenly, the electricity in the building shorted. The camera was cut off. Security began to radio one another, frantic, and then there were reports of intruders. Then there was another report, this one from the police commissioner’s office, of a bomb threat in the building. Then there was an order to evacuate. There was Sugimura shouting, demanding everyone stay right where they were, but other, different orders were coming from every other direction. Nobody knew what to do.

Then, somewhere in the chaos, a gunshot ran out.

The lights came back on, the cameras started to roll, and Sugimura was dead in his chair, blood soaking through his shirt.

Later, police would enter the Sugimura household, to find just about every document and item to do with the Okumura family name missing.

Even more strangely, there was evidence the thief stopped for a cup of tea.

#

‘What are you going to do, Mishima-san?’ Suzui asked. Mishima couldn’t answer – he was far too busy feeling nauseous.

‘Well, he’ll get out there and get himself more work, of course,’ Lala said tartly. Mishima looked up.

‘Lala-chan, I don’t’ think it’s so simple…’ Suzui said gently, ‘That’s a black mark on your record. It’s hard to get around that…’

Mishima winced. Suzui was undoubtedly thinking of her own black mark – dropping out of high school. The unfairness of that really burned him, even with Kamoshida gone. If it wasn’t for him, Suzui wouldn’t have had to drop out.

Suzui was lucky though – now she was living with Takamaki, she would always have a safety net to fall back on. Mishima didn’t realise that stuntwork was so lucrative. If he’d kept up with sports as a kid, maybe that was something he could do.

‘Please. You will make do, some of us have much worse black marks against us,’ Lala said, gesturing to herself, and then nodding towards her assistant, ‘Just ask Akira-kun.’

Mishima raised an eyebrow – it was hard to imagine that big-glasses frizzy-hair pet-kitty barman had some kind of dark secret.

‘You have something like that, Kurusu-san?’ Suzui said, wincing sympathetically.

‘Jail. Five years,’ Kurusu said, not even looking up from the glass he was half-heartedly trying to scrub a stubborn mark from, ‘For assault.’

Suzui and Mishima stared, open-mouthed. Assault was not exactly what they had been expecting. This guy looked like the worst thing he had ever done was return a rental DVD late.

‘Don’t look so surprised. Plenty of good people end up with your black marks,’ Lala continued, and then set a cocktail down in front of Mishima, and a beer in front of Suzui.

‘Now,’ she said, much more kindly, ‘Drink up. These are on the house.’

‘Lala-chan, you’re the best person in Tokyo,’ Suzui said sincerely. Lala made a funny noise and waved the compliment away with a blush.

‘Okay, Mishima-san. Let’s toast your new black-marked life,’ Suzui said, lifting a glass. Mishima gloomily lifted his own. After the past couple of weeks feeling so great about the Phansite and all his anonymous articles getting so much attention, he couldn’t help but feel being fired was almost…deserved. He hadn’t been doing much of his real work, and the Phansite had become less and less about showing the truth, and more about the rush he got reading praise. About being called ‘brave’ and a ‘whistleblower’, and all the mystique his online persona had gathered.

He felt like a stupid asshole for it all now. Maybe Ohya had been right and he should have just kept his head down, done his work, not gotten any stupid ideas.

With this in his mind, he decided all there was left to do was get so drunk he couldn’t see straight.

‘To black marks,’ he said.

#

He got too drunk.

He got drunk enough that Lala began to sternly set glasses of water in front of him, eyeing him. After a few cocktails, Suzui staggered off to catch the train home, saying something about wanting to join Takamaki for dinner. His whining was widely ineffective, and he was left at the bar by himself. Glasses-boy didn’t make for much conversation, although he seemed to listen as Mishima groused on and on about his crappy boss.

After he scared off a customer by trying to get her number, Lala put her exquisite heel down.

‘You’re going home,’ she said firmly, and then turned around ‘Akira-kun? You live in the same building, don’t you? Head off early and get him back.’

‘Lala –‘

‘Don’t you argue with me,’ she said, waggling a finger in his face, ‘You’ve had quite enough commiseration. Now, head home, drink some water, and get ready to job-hunt in the morning.’

Mishima groaned, stumbling off his stool. He tried to grab his laptop bag, but Kurusu picked it up before he could.

‘I’ll carry it,’ he said, ‘It looks expensive.’

‘Yeah, so don’t drop it, right?’ he said, irritated suddenly. Kurusu shrugged, barely a single lift of his shoulder. Honestly, this guy was so weird and _lazy_. It was like he could never even be bothered to stand up properly. Like he was too cool for it.

They walked back to the train station in silence, Mishima fumbling in his pockets for his Suica for so long that the staff member has to come over and assist.

‘You know, the only reason I got fired was because I was doing something more important,’ Mishima said as they passed over the gate, not so drunk he isn’t embarrassed and ashamed of himself.

‘Oh?’ Kurusu replied, standing with one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other on the strap of Mishima’s bag. He’s the only person Mishima has ever met that actually warrants description as _languid_.

‘Yeah, you couldn’t understand,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘The Phantom Thieves? I’m one of them.’

Kurusu hummed, but Mishima didn’t like the odd tilt to his mouth.

‘I am! Just…not…officially,’ he slurred, almost stumbling. Kurusu caught his shoulder, pulling him up with far more strength than Mishima expected. All that lugging bottles about and cleaning, he supposed.

‘You know how?’ he whispered, or at least tried to, ‘Because I’m the one writing everything on the website. That whole thing is _mine_.’

And Oracle’s, but Mishima didn’t think Kurusu needed to know that part.

‘The Phantom Thieves they…they noticed my potential,’ Mishima said, breathing probably more heavily than he ought to be, ‘They’re the first ones to act like I’m not just some – some zero.’

Kurusu just nodded, shepherding him off the train as they reached their stop. They walked to their building, Mishima telling Kurusu all the while, over and over, that he was the _real_ driving force behind the Phantom Thieves fame.

‘You’re not impressed,’ he said, as they finally reached the door.

‘I’m very impressed,’ Kurusu replied, in that same funny tone. Like Kurusu was having a joke with himself that Mishima didn’t get.

As they reached their building, the cat came leaping down from the windows below, meowing. It landed on Kurusu’s shoulder, staring at Mishima with bright blue eyes just a touch too intelligent to be comfortable.

‘And so’s Morgana,’ Kurusu said, tilting his cheek to touch the cat’s.

‘You’re making fun of me. You – you don’t…you’re just like the guys I went to high school with. All effortlessly cool and handsome…everything’s _easy_ for you guys,’ Mishima said, as Kurusu unlocked the door.

‘Wouldn’t know. Didn’t go to high school,’ Kurusu said airily, ‘And I always thought myself more _dashing_ than _handsome_.’

Kurusu is acting different, Mishima thought, but his brain was too foggy with gin to think further than that. Under that quiet exterior, he was…he was something.

Kurusu walked him to his door, the cat dashing ahead. Mishima wasn’t sure he’d told Kurusu which number he lived at. It didn’t seem to matter. The cat went right to his door and sat there, tail curled around itself, bright eyes watching carefully.

‘Well…thanks,’ Mishima muttered, not sure how he felt about being chaperoned to his door like a young lady at the end of a first date. Kurusu just smiled at him, watching as he shoved the key into the lock. The door opened, Mishima was about to go in, shout goodnight, and slam the door before this weird guy and his cat could keep him any busier, when Kurusu stopped him.

‘Hold on,’ he said, and presenting something to him, ‘You dropped your wallet on the train earlier.’

Mishima stared at it. He was certain he hadn’t. He was very, very sure that his wallet has been in a zipped pocket in his cargo shorts.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, taking it and putting it back in his pocket. Kurusu smiled again, tilting his head.

‘You should keep writing them, you know,’ he said, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

‘Huh?’ Mishima asked, glancing up. He’d never noticed that Kurusu was taller than him before. He was usually behind the bar, or slouched over, so he’d always thought Kurusu was even smaller than him.

‘The articles. I’m a fan,’ he said, nodding, ‘Read them on the train to work.’

‘Oh…well, yeah, a lot of people do,’ Mishima said, back of his neck prickling. Kurusu didn’t reply to that, just shrugged. He turned, as if to head back downstairs for the night, but Mishima called out.

‘Hey,’ he said. Kurusu turned, as did the cat. Their expressions were equally curious.

‘Did you really do it? The…thing that got you thrown in jail, I mean,’ he said. A funny expression crossed Kurusu’s face, the closest Mishima had gotten to seeing something on him that wasn’t either blank or too-cool-for-this attitude. It was gone in an instant, and the smirk he’d been wearing since they left the train returned to his face.

‘I didn’t,’ he said, putting his hands up in a “What can ya do?” gesture, ‘But trust me. The guy would have deserved it.’

It wasn’t until morning that Mishima noticed a rather massive addition to his bank balance, and a note in his wallet, in that same elegant handwriting he’d seen on the envelope.

_For your continued services._

Head spinning, mouth dry, Mishima desperately tried to remember how he got home last night. Slowly, he remembered a cat, and the man from the bar with curly hair, leaning by his door.

#

‘ _Of course, it’s as Prime Minister Shido says – the Phantom Thieves allegations are all hoaxes. They are terrorists killing innocent people and nothing more.’_

_‘Chief Prosecutor Nijima was arrested today for potential connections to the Phantom Thieves –‘_

_‘The hunt continues for recent widow Haru Sugimura. Police suspect she may have been kidnapped by the Phantom Thieves –‘_

_‘The art thefts alone totally several million yen in damages –‘_

_‘But I heard many of them found their way to their original creators!’_

_‘Their_ alleged _original creators, if you’re willing to believe such –‘_

_‘The Phantom Thieves are a menace to this country! As your Prime Minister, I swear they will be caught and put on trial for the crimes they have committed against the country we all love so dearly.’_

_‘There is nothing to worry about. We are very close on the tail of the real leader of the Phantom Thieves. And I, Goro Akechi, will stop at nothing to bring him to justice.’_

Every channel, every news feed, every piece of social media seemed to be about the Phantom Thieves. And Mishima couldn’t help but think he was living in the same building as one.

It couldn’t be true, and yet Mishima couldn’t shake the hazy images from that night, the wallet snatched from his pocket, the note in that delicate handwriting, the money that kept finding its way into his bag or his bank account.

He hadn’t seen Kurusu since then. Apparently he had been sick, so Lala had given him time off. Mishima had dutifully continued writing about the Phantom Thieves and, more importantly, the crimes of their ‘victims’. He wrote like the world was ending tomorrow, but lately it felt like it was. Envelopes continued to arrive in his apartment, spotless but for an encouraging message and the papers within – evidence of corruption and assault and a million and one awful crimes, always on the hands of someone big, someone important.

And the more Mishima read about it, the more it all seemed to head one direction. Up. To the top of the country.

And, if Mishima was honest himself, down. To the thirteenth floor. 

#

The sirens woke him in the middle of the night. He groaned, clutching his covers – he’d only gotten to sleep a couple of hours prior, and the blue light spilling into his room was giving him a headache. There were voices, shouting, footsteps pounding.

And then a scream. Not a shriek of fear or horror, but something twisted and angry. A man frustrated to point of agony.

Mishima was certain it came from downstairs. Unable to help himself, he found his slippers and descended the stairs. Police officers and ambulance staff were rushing up and down the stairs, and every resident was poking their head out to see what happened. Just as Mishima suspected, the noise came from the thirteenth floor.

‘Oh, it’s horrible, it’s so horrible,’ an old lady repeated.

‘What, what happened?’ Mishima stuttered, heart hammering. Among the throng of police, he was _certain_ he saw Goro Akechi himself, face twisted into something much uglier than his usual pleasant smile.

He had a horrible suspicion he knew exactly whose apartment was being inspected.

‘Suicide,’ a man with a goatee said dully, ‘Some kid shot himself square in the head last night, apparently.’

‘Horrible, horrible. How did I not hear it?’ the old lady said, ‘If one of us had just gotten there sooner…’

‘Eugh, what a waste,’ the man replied, shaking his head.

‘It was probably because he had a criminal record,’ the old lady said, sadly, ‘He didn’t really have much of a future. Poor boy…he was always so polite.’

Mishima felt as though the air had been punched out of his lungs.

#

He returned upstairs with legs made of jelly, thinking about poor Kurusu sprawled out with a bullet in his brain. Moments ago, Mishima had been convinced he was a Phantom Thief. Because…because what, he was all weird the other night?

Mishima should have noticed something. That lazy, don’t-care attitude, surely that had been something else. Something sadder he didn’t see. He should have done something.

The guy was weird, sure, but he didn’t deserve that. Just for having a black mark.

Mishima’s stomach clenched. Maybe that was, despite Lala’s optimism, just what happened in the end. After all, Suzui had tried just the same when she was younger. Maybe she hadn’t made it, but it had still left her with no high school diploma, and legs too damaged to ever pursue sports again.

Thoughts dark and broiling, Mishima opened the door to his apartment. Something dark shot past him, and Mishima twisted around to see Kurusu’s cat glancing back at him, before disappearing down the stairs.

Heart hammering, Mishima creaked the door open. The window was open, again, letting in a light breeze.

There was another envelope on the windowsill. That same handwriting.

_Just missed you._

_Shame. Bet your face is a picture._

Mishima opened the envelope. Another packet of materials fell out. A mugshot – a teenager with curly black hair and wide, scared eyes. A report about the alleged assault. Testimony from the witness, a woman who kept repeating the same sentence over and over. Testimony from other women, this time with a very different story, about a very different man.

The accuser’s name, and a photo to match. Prime Minister Shido. With a target drawn on the photo, right over his heart.

Mishima breathed in deeply, and went to fetch his laptop. This would be a long day’s work.

As he closed the window, ready to settle in for a long day of writing, he swore he saw a figure in black on the rooftop opposite, raising a hand. Mishima looked again, and he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> In this house we love and appreciate Lala Escargot.


End file.
